


Cherry

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-The Final Problem, pilot!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: He was drop. Dead. Hot.Suddenly, her sundress was wholly inadequate. She was sure her pale English features from her cheeks down her neck and all the way to her feet, were as bright as the cherries on her purse. She almost, almost, gave in to the temptation to fan her face like a teenager.Or: In which Molly discovers she has a thing for Sherlock in uniform.





	Cherry

It was blisteringly hot. Like, bake-cookies-in-your-car-hot. Jump-in-the-lake-hot. Strip-down-to-my-bikini-hot.

Little children with plastic wagons strolled up and down the bay, offering bottles ice water for a dollar. Teenagers pedaled ice-cream cycles around crowds of people, jangling bells as they went. Policemen and EMTs were in abundance, watching out for signs of heat exhaustion, on foot, on bicycles, and in golf carts.

But the 100 degree heat hadn’t dettered the thousands of people from gathering beneath the blazing sun, clustered in the shady trees, underneath umbrellas, or just laying out in sacrifice to the sun.

Molly strolled down the path, music from the boats docked in the bay drifting out above the crowd. It was their last day and, despite the heat and humidity, she would really miss this town. A buzzing city that popped up in seemingly the most remote place possible at the tip of a hand-shaped state. The views of the lake from their rented cottage were stunning, shimmering blue and white.

And she had stuffed her face with the most delicious cherries she had ever eaten. Tents, small and large, had popped up near the end of the path and she had blown all of her spending money on cherry flavoured everything. Not to mention, a cherry print bag, a cherry print sundress, sunglasses with cute little cherries on the sides, and a cherry-inspired necklace.

On the plane ride over, she had questioned why Sherlock brought her along on a relatively simple trip, but as soon as she saw the banner across the airport welcome center boasting “The Cherry Capitol welcomes you to the 2018 National Cherry Festival” she had her answer. And Sherlock had received the biggest hug she had ever given, squeal of excitement and all.

He had been busy all week on the case, a potential killer trying to off one of the pilots of the Silver Sparrows, a nationally known flying group. Due to their ties to the government Navy, it was a sensitive matter, and Mycroft had called in a favor.

He hadn’t seemed too concerned with the case. He worked on it during the day while she explored, then texted her where to meet him for dinner. They would spend the evenings walking along the bay, occasionally eating ice cream cones, just enjoying each other’s company.

After the fallout from Sherrinford, it was nice to get to know each other again, to stitch together the cracks of their friendship. It was different than before. Yet somehow better, more real.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of beeps from her purse. She slid her sunglasses on top of her head and read the stream of texts from Sherlock with a smile.

**Case closed**.

**Come to end of pier. They wish to bestow some sort of honour upon me. Tell them to stop.**

**Molly, please. Help.**

**Their accents are atrocious. How can any of them stand the sound of their own voice?**

She laughed and tucked her phone away as she headed toward the pier. A gate closed off the road, but the shorts-clad police officer waved her through.

The area was cluttered with vans and trucks proclaiming local and national news stations. Molly carefully picked her way through the mess of cords running this way and that toward the open area by the pier.

A cluster of clamoring reporters and cameramen was blocking the view, their shouts carrying over each other until Molly couldn’t tell what anyone was saying. She stopped a ways away, not too concerned. Sherlock had better social niceties than before and she knew he wouldn’t say anything too insulting.

Then again, American reporters were a far cry from Britian’s.

She was about to move forward and try to pull Sherlock from his predators, but a shout from the other side of the pier caught her attention.

“Mr Holmes!” A middle-aged woman, exuding importance and flanked by her own team of reporters, strode into the fray which parted before her like the Red Sea. And Molly got her first glimpse of their quarry.

Her heart stopped, then suddenly beat triple time as her gaze slowly made its way from the military boots up the long, uniform-encased legs, to the cinched slim waist and the gleaming helmet tucked under his arm, his long fingers in matte-black, leather gloves, along his broad shoulders adorned with military insignia, up to the familiar, chiseled jawline, and finally to his face, hidden behind a pair of aviator-style sunglasses, his curls mussed fetchingly over his forhead.

He was drop. Dead. Hot.

Suddenly, her sundress was wholly inadequate. She was sure her pale English features from her cheeks down her neck and all the way to her feet, were as bright as the cherries on her purse. She almost,  _almost,_ gave in to the temptation to fan her face like a teenager.

Before she could get her rampaging hormones under control, she realised Sherlock, in all his fighter pilot glory, had spotted her and was striding toward her, a slew of cameras and reporters following behind him.

In the three seconds she had, all she could think of to say was:

“Screw friendship.”

She grabbed him by the front of his uniform and yanked him down to plant a kiss on his lips. And by the way he quickly got on board, giving as good as he got, he apparently felt the same way.

It wasn’t very comfortable, being squished up against his rough uniform in the scorching heat while cameras were surrounding them. But she didn’t give two flying figs, relishing the burn in her legs as she leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck.

Yep, their platonic friendship was officially ruined.

Neither particularly cared.

oOo

The headlines hit the London paper the next morning and caused a massive sellout of every magazine and newspaper, crashing several tabloid websites by sheer traffic.

**London’s Detective Finds Love in US**

**Holmes and Hooper: A Love Story of Criminals, Corpses, and Cherries**

**Bachelor No Longer: Sherlock Holmes Breaks Millions of Hearts**

But Molly’s favourite, which she had printed and framed on the mantle beside a photo of him in full gear with the Silver Sparrows, a shot of them snogging on the pier (Sherlock’s hands had wandered into dangerous territory at that point and they had quickly run back to their cottage), and the shadowbox with his honorary Silver Sparrow medallion, was:

**Boffin Detective Bags Bride at Fruit Festival**


End file.
